Chapter 3 - The House Where It Once Hung

Thomas Ellis lived above a narrow picture-framing workshop on the west side of the city. The following morning, Mara found him at the worktable, trimming a sheet of backing board. He wore the same old spectacles he had repaired twice rather than replace. The pale scar beside his eyebrow was visible whenever he lifted his head toward the light.

She had called him after leaving the hotel, but she had not told him everything.

Now she showed him a photograph of the painting on the easel.

His scissors stopped.

"Where?"

"At the Grand Meridian's private banquet room. A businessman bought it at auction."

"They put that up for sale?"

"For three million dollars."

Thomas moved slowly to the window. Mara recognized the gesture. When she was a child, he went there whenever a problem required more honesty than he could manage in one breath.

"I thought we'd lost it," he said.

"We were told someone stole it."

"I know what we were told."

She waited. After a moment, Thomas opened a drawer beneath the worktable and took out a flat cardboard portfolio. The corners had softened over years of use. Inside were drawings, faded receipts, photographs, and the inventory sheet from a rented storage room.

He placed a family photograph before her. The portrait hung above a dining-room sideboard, between a clock and a vase with one handle missing. Mara remembered both objects. She remembered standing under that painting and wondering why her father, who looked older now, had once drawn himself looking so stern.

On the back of the photograph, in her grandmother's handwriting, were the words: Thomas's self-portrait, 1988. For home, not sale.

"That's useful," Mara said.

"It's more than useful." Thomas lifted another sheet. "I never signed a sale agreement. Never assigned the copyright. Never asked anyone to find a buyer."

The storage receipt was dated twelve years after the picture had been painted. A later insurance inventory recorded the portrait in a wooden crate marked E-17. The following year's correspondence described the crate as missing after a warehouse contractor changed management. A letter from the facility said its records were incomplete. A police report listed the loss as suspected theft, with no identified suspect.

It was not a clean chain of evidence. Time had left gaps. But the picture had existed in the Ellis home, and Thomas had made it.

"Why didn't you tell me how much the painting meant to you?" Mara asked.

"I did. You were young enough to think I meant what it cost."

He turned over a charcoal study. The same face appeared from another angle. The jaw, the placement of the eyes, even the awkward way Thomas had drawn the left ear were unmistakable. On the corner he had written the year and a note about the paint mixture he intended to use.

Mara examined the study, then the photograph from the auction. The painted ear was partly hidden by hair. Julian's ear, in the photograph he had shown her, was shaped differently. She remembered noticing that difference without understanding why it relieved her.

"There is something else," Thomas said.

He searched the portfolio and brought out a letter with a formal letterhead she didn't recognize. It had been sent years after the warehouse loss by a gallery researcher asking whether Thomas had ever produced a portrait of a member of the Harrow family.

"I wrote back that I had painted a portrait of myself," Thomas said. "They never replied."

"Who wrote the letter?"

"A junior associate at a place called Mercer Fine Arts."

Mara read it twice. Claire Mercer's name wasn't on the letter, but the gallery had belonged to her before she became Julian Harrow's business partner. The inquiry meant someone connected to Claire had known the portrait existed long before last night's auction.

"You think she found it?"

"I don't know. Someone was looking for it. That's all this proves."

Thomas had always been careful about the difference between suspicion and fact. As a child, Mara found it frustrating. That morning, she was grateful.

Julian arrived after lunch with a lawyer named Nadia Price. Mara had agreed to the visit on the condition that her father could end it at any time. Julian came without cameras, flowers, or an oversized gesture of gratitude. He wore a plain coat and carried a copy of the sales description.

"Mr. Ellis," he said, "I owe your daughter an apology for how I treated her."

Thomas looked at Mara. She nodded once.

"Then you owe us an explanation of why your name is on my painting," he replied.

Julian set the catalogue on the table. "Claire Mercer organized the auction. The catalogue says the portrait came from a private collection. I don't know who gave that description to the specialist."

"Have you asked?"

"Yes. The firm says the records are being preserved, but it hasn't released the consignor's identity. Nadia is making a formal request."

Nadia examined the old storage documents with Thomas's consent. She photographed each item, noting dates and sources rather than declaring the matter settled. The original painting would require a conservator; the auction label might conceal evidence, and the pencil mark Mara had added would have to be assessed without damaging the surface.

"I shouldn't have drawn it," Mara admitted.

"You shouldn't have had to make your point that way," Nadia said. "Still, we must document the mark honestly. Pretending it was already part of the painting would make everything worse."

Julian studied the charcoal drawing. He appeared uncomfortable, but not because it lacked resemblance. It resembled him enough to explain why the catalogue had seemed plausible. Thomas, standing beside the worktable, resembled him too.

"Have we met before?" Julian asked.

Thomas looked up. "No."

"You look familiar."

"You said the same thing about my painting."

Neither man smiled.

Mara took Julian's phone photograph and compared it with the drawing. She was certain the young person in Julian's photograph was Julian. She was equally certain the painting depicted Thomas. Both statements could be true, but someone had sold the coincidence as proof of identity.

Nadia placed the old Mercer Fine Arts inquiry on top of her notes.

"This establishes a prior search," she said. "It doesn't establish a theft. We need to know why it was made, and what happened after Thomas replied."

"I want the work returned," Thomas said. "Not displayed as a disputed treasure. Returned."

Julian looked toward the easel in the corner of the workshop, where Thomas had placed an unfinished landscape.

"If the evidence supports your ownership, I won't stand in the way."

"You can do more than stay out of the way," Mara said.

Julian met her gaze.

"You can find out who told you it was yours."

After he left, Thomas returned the portfolio to its drawer, but Mara kept a copy of the inquiry. The letter contained a reference number. Nadia had overlooked nothing; she had recorded it too. Still, it was Mara who noticed the second set of initials faintly penciled beside that number.

C.M.

May you like

[COMPLETED] “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY DRESS! YOU’RE NOTHING BUT AN OLD SEAM...

[COMPLETED] At the Mafia Boss's Engagement Party, I Served His Hungry So...

[COMPLETED] The Mafia Boss’s Fiancée Tried to Dismiss His Father’s Loyal...

She looked at the date again.

Claire had not merely organized a sale years later. Somebody in her office had been asking questions about Thomas Ellis long before Julian ever saw the portrait.